


How Sweet The Sound

by BunnyMoss



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Cunnilingus, Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hallucinations, Marriage, Pregnancy, Prophetic Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:56:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21148334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyMoss/pseuds/BunnyMoss
Summary: But when she comes and climbs those stairs with purpose in her step, she is made of nothing but angel wings and pounding hearts, gasping breaths.His hands always shake, when he first comes to hold her. Tonight is no different, she bears his shame with grace.-Joseph x Rook drabble





	How Sweet The Sound

The board is set, the pieces are scattered.

Pawns, bishops, knights, toppled and shattered and left in the wake of the King as he rallies his troops.

What's left of them, anyway.

On the checkered tiles stand a plethora of black and white.

A single rook, battered, broken, tarnished.

Fighting ‘til it's toppled. Killing ‘til it’s dead.

Pawns behind her, _three_ knights before her. Too many pieces, not enough _friends_.

Rules don’t matter, this is His game.

Four moves will usher checkmate but the King will still survive.

The game is drawn, the pieces cleared, two of them still alive.

-

Call the Father one thing, call him a hypocrite. Call him a man who preaches of sin to the masses, and urges atonement on every other breath. Who turns inside himself in the shadows of the night and leaps headfirst into the very thing he preaches against.

Touting piety, practicing vice.

But how can he swallow his pride and temper his gluttony when it's him she chooses to come to? When it is by his hand that she seeks her bliss, her nirvana, her salvation?

Her boots thud heavily across the chapel floor, hard rubber and steel toes treading their way across the boards.

She only ever comes to him when he stays above his church, in the loft above his heart of hearts. A place of God, a sanctum of worship, his home of all homes. Even after the reaping, when his flock has all but scattered to play their part in this righteous march to the Gates, his place is here.

His flock converges in the early morning and late into the evening. They pour into the chapel with love in their hearts and songs in their souls and they praise.

Worship

Rejoice

The lot of them clustered there with him, crowding to lay hands on their Father, their shepherd, their messiah. And he joins in this rising fervor with them day after day, night after night. A crescendo of passionate cries, and praises to God, and sermons of sin and baptism and atonement and _still-_

Still he caves.

Asks God for forgiveness, or for some sort of guidance.

And then worships at her altar from midnight to daybreak.

When she comes, she's in white, always white. As pure as the lilies that blanket his land.

When she comes, she is silent, reverent, and chaste. She takes her boots off at the foot of the tiny staircase, leaves the mud and muck behind. She makes a strange picture, wearing what should really be her wedding dress, her christening, her purity. But on those feet, her muddy boots, ever utilitarian, mucking through the woods to sneak around the compound’s fence.

But _when she comes_ and climbs those stairs with purpose in her step, she is made of nothing but angel wings and pounding hearts, gasping breaths.

His hands always shake, when he first comes to hold her. Tonight is no different, she bears his shame with grace.

_Grace_.

Her name from his lips, and his from hers. _Father. Joseph. Please._

She comes into his church and praises God in her own language. In kisses, bites, and little gasps.

He lays his hand tenderly as he can on her pale shoulder, drawing her in as she spreads those palms on his bare chest. She's feeling for his heartbeat, making sure he's still breathing. This has never been a dream, not once, and the reality still staggers him. This is _his_ reality, lived and breathed in shadows and secrecy under God's watchful eye.

The glide of her lips across his is a blessing each time. A silent and assured promise, their communion together. Her love, in the form of wet little smooches she drags down his throat and over his collarbones. Lingering and lapping at the sparrows inked into his flesh. She lets him whisper a quiet prayer into the wild curls of her hair as he runs his hands up and down the long lines of her back. A prayer of blessing, of dedication. For the Lord to bless this, their union tonight.

She's known this was coming since the first time they met. God made her for him, and he made him for her. In a way it's symbolic, that she wears this white gown. She'd known from beginning she'd be the Mother to his Father. Yin to his Yang. He hadn’t been shy about telling her, either, though he had been quite staggered that she'd agreed so quickly.

Their courtship has been a blessing itself, made of secrets and shadows and whispered adorations. When the morning light shines in the windows of the chapel tomorrow, there will be no more barrier between the deputy and his flock. There will be no more atonement for his sins of lust. There will simply be a man and his wife, a king and his queen. _Joseph and Rook_. Sanctioned by God, together at last.

_Amazing Grace._

Tonight, Joseph worships. He gives her a ring, carved of apple wood, made by his hands. She gives him his own, her grandfather’s, from a chain around her neck. She's never taken it off. He’s never tried to remove it, only watched it hang from her neck and glint in the lamplight when there’s nothing but skin and sweat and that ring between them. Now it is his, and he wears it with _pride_. Dangled like a carrot on a stick for so long, now eagerly snatched and cherished, serving its true purpose.

Their rings exchanged, their quiet vows whispered, with God above them bearing witness to their consummation, he takes her.

She lays herself out so beautifully on his bed, his sheets, this special place that has slowly come to smell just as much of her on his pillows as him. Her eyes pierce his, burning with that fire he fell in love with the first moment he saw it.

“Joseph,” she whispers, pawing out to the air in his direction, still wearing that white dress.

All hiked up around her thighs and framing that beautiful, beautiful slickness between her legs. Just for him. A wedding present.

Other nights, he'd be greedier. He'd shuck his jeans off and sink right onto her, into her, praying this time they conceived the child he’s been praying for. That she has been willing to bear him, so gracious and generous. But where once she'd been coming to see him in sync with her monthly cycle, more or less, his Rook has blessed him with her presence almost weekly. Eight weeks she’s visited at least once, her hunger growing just as-…

_Just as her body is._

“When did you plan to tell me?” he gawks as she lets him move her about, to tug her dress right off of her.

It's barely there, and hard to trace just yet, but patient Grace so silently tugs his hands to the subtle swell of her belly and asks him to _feel_, and it's _there_.

“I wasn’t sure. Not until Kim took me to her midwife,” she whispers, averting her eyes as though he'll be upset that she still sees her friends, “she told me three months. That my last ‘period' was just implantation spotting, and that everything looks normal, a-and that the due date should be Christmas day of all things, and-…”

“Grace.”

Her rambling ceases and he can see in her eyes that lingering, subtle touch of fear. He soothes it away with a kiss that warms his heart twice over. Even as it’s already burning with joy. She's scared, he's sure, for her position in Hope County has never been an easy one. There are people to impress, standards to hold, a resistance that has started to take note of her extended absence of late. He doesn't even care if she told the doctor just whose child this is sprouting in her belly. For she knows as well as he does, she's not going back. Eden’s Gate is her home now.

Those friends of hers, those resistance members and freedom fighters… they aren’t forgiving. Not like he and his family were and are, accepting her into their fold despite her transgressions. But when she wakes tomorrow, safe in his arms under God's watchful light, she'll be dead to them, like the drop of a hat, the flip of a switch.

“But I just… wanted to surprise you, and I thought that with tonight being our wedding, you would want to hear from your _wife_ that we conceived,” she continues when they part, “and I'm shocked you never noticed when we were fucking all those times and-"

_“Grace.”_

“Sorry…”

He smooths her hair from her forehead as he comes to rest beside her on the bed. She clambers into his arms and clings like a koala, this wildling turned gentle lover.

“Is that what you call it? What we've done together _in my church_?” He whispers, but there is only mirth in his eyes, no hostility she had originally expected from him all those months ago.

She shakes her head, and she's quiet again. This woman of his, so stoically silent until she’s anxious. So she must be now.

“It doesn’t matter now, what we did then. Save for my gratitude and fond memories of each and every time you've blessed my bed, Grace Seed,” it's his turn to continue, “I have atoned for my sins, but I do not regret them. They brought you to me. They brought our child into being.”

“Will you fuck me now, then, Father?”

_How sweet the sound._

All conversation is tossed out the window as she snatches up his hand, drags it down between her plush thighs. She is slick, and wanton, and irrevocably his. No longer a secret to love, no longer a sin to tangle with, impassioned and urgent and so, so good. In a matter of moments he's on her, kissing and nipping down the swell of her belly, stroking and soothing and wandering _downdowndown_ until she's squirming under his hot breaths. Until he spreads her with his thumbs and drags his tongue along her, gathering her wetness and groaning at the taste of her.

_Eden’s apple, ripe and sweet_.

_“Joseph,”_ she gasps, wriggling against the flat of his tongue as he lathes it over her clit, and it's all he needs to push forward.

He devours her like a man possessed, hiking her sturdy legs over his shoulders and digging his nails into her tender thighs. He recites prayer after silent prayer, working at her until his jaw begins to click and he's sure she's chafing from his beard. And not moments later she's tugging at the knot of his hair, trying to draw him up with panic in every little whimper.

“No more, please, _fuck me_.”

_Praise her, blessed woman_.

“As you wish, little dove,” he huffs, wiping at his mouth with the side of his forearm, the skilled portrait of his late wife's youthful face.

Somehow he's aged two decades, and his Grace is so soft, so full of youth and vivacity and spring in her step.

In all of a few breaths they’re both naked as the night, and tangled together in a knot of aching want and purest need. He wastes no time in forging into her, growling out a pleased sigh into the hollow of her throat as she keens for him. Her body is on fire, lit up with sparks that jump from hers to his, needling into his flesh, into his heart.

“…and they shall become one flesh,” she whispers into the shell of his ear.

_Genesis. What a woman._

He pulls back just enough to catch that wry smirk on her face before it disappears to a breathless gasp as he rolls his hips deeper, ever deeper. She takes him like they're made for each other. Her walls flutter around him like a sinful caress, Grace claws down his back, her short nails nicking over scars old and new, painting new lines in his skin to remember her by. Every moan she affords him rings out like a blessed hymn in the rafters of his chapel. Every roll and greedy little wriggle of her hips shoves him further and further towards that precipice right along with her.

“You are my salvation,” he whispers, “you are my saving grace. You are… _you are._”

She must see the sudden flicker of something unsettling in his eyes as the old familiar, tender caress of the Voice prickles at him. And she knows just what to do, soothing him as he falters and drawing him down to her chest. For he is not always made of strength. These flickering head-splitting touches of God that have set him down this path… he is weak when they come, and in their wake he trembles. But Grace, _beautiful_ Grace… she cups his face and kisses him, flips them over, sits astride him, and-

“I love you Joe,” is all she says as she sinks onto him like they never parted in the first place, and in this moment she is more than an angel.

More than heaven-sent. More than the wife he was promised.

She's human.

The Father and Rook.

_Joe and Grace_.

And just as the Father loved the Mother, so now does Joseph love her, watching her in her stride. Her hips rolling as she bears down on him urgently, working hard enough for the two of them. She guides his wayward hands to her hips and squeezes them there, trying to encourage him to hold on. But his hands won’t still, not as he's forging into her tight, slick heat, tighter, ever tighter. Not as she looks so radiant with the ceiling light above her like a halo. Not as she—

_There is no ceiling light in his bedroom_.

Grace keens, throwing her head back as she clamps down on him, teetering on the edge of ruin.

_He's known the Marshall was coming. He woke his flock up just to congregate here at nearly 1 AM. The best display of dominance he could think to muster so suddenly. They'll be here soon enough_.

Her supple body, so newly swollen with life, with their little beautiful baby-

_The helicopter's spotlight hones in on his compound. His people grow tenser by the second._

“Look alive, Joseph, they're here,” John says from the front pew.

The aching pain of the Voice pulls away from his temples, receding to pool deep in the back of his skull. His eyes, bleary and aching from the onslaught of pressure, scan the chapel. The very depths of his core are shaken to the bone at the presence of this fresh new calling. This new _vision_.

His flock begins to sing, their favorite hymn, so soft and sweet. They worry for him. He worries for them. And the moment that door opens, he is not himself. No longer worshipping, no longer joining in this trepid hour of sanctuary and ceremony, _no_.

The Father lifts his arms and speaks, but Joseph doesn’t hear the words. Not while that earth shattering vision whirls round in fluttering circles like a beacon he only needs to turn towards, dizzied as he tries and tries.

In step the harbingers of his doom. The lambs, the horsemen, the—

_She's so young. Frightened. Trying to look hardened, trying to steel herself against his tittering flock as they surge to wall him in, back against his pulpit._

And so he sends them off. With a sudden, crushing comfort smothering him like heavy snow, he urges his Children to disperse. With his brothers at his back, Faith beside them, and _her_—

They’re trudging through the motions. Setting the ball rolling. That's all this is. The Voice has spoken, and delivered. In such a strange, strange way, but…

“I saw when the lamb opened the first seal and I heard as if it were the noise of thunder one of the four beasts say come and see,” he growls, the look in her frightened eyes tightening around his heart like divine justice.

_Step forward!_

She meets his gaze. He can’t hold it. Not yet. But soon.

“_And I saw_. And behold it was a white horse...” he forces his gaze upon her superior.

The Sheriff steadies himself as he should. All is in order.

_E. Whitehorse_.

“And hell followed with him.”

Now she sees. Now he holds her gaze. Hands out, palms up. That patch on her uniform…

_G. Sanders. Rookie._

All he can do is thank God. The board is set. The pieces are scattered. Four moves will usher checkmate but the King will still survive.

_Amazing Grace…_

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please feel free to leave comments and suggestions! Let me know what you think, or what you'd like to see next!


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